One More Miracle
by Ace-Of-Spades-2014
Summary: John's thoughts when at Sherlock's grave


John leaned against the gravestone that had been erected to memorialize the world's greatest detective. There was a part of him that was conscious of the fact that doing so was improper, but he had been out there for hours and exhaustion overpowered his will to sit up on his own. His head hitting the stone and eyes cast upwards towards the darkened sky, torrent waves of grief, anger, and a profound sense of loneliness crashed over him.

Having been a soldier and a doctor in the army, he had witnessed many deaths, but none of them had ever impacted him like seeing Sherlock step off of that roof to end his life. No one had ever meant as much to John as the crazy, brilliant man that he had shared a space with for two years, sharing not only the loft but the thrill of the chase and addiction to danger. Now that he was gone, John wasn't sure how he could go on.

It had been so strange seeing his best friend standing stories above him, cellphone pressed to his ear as he spoke to John. John had tried to apologize for the way he had acted only hours before, ashamed of how he had called Sherlock nothing more than a machine. The apology had been cut short when Sherlock told him that everything had been a lie.

No, John argued passionately. Sherlock Holmes was not a fake. His deductions weren't some hoax. John knew who Sherlock was. Who he truly was.

But knowing him hadn't meant anything in the end.

John could remember how hours before that moment they had been handcuffed together because the doctor refused to stand idly by as the greatest man he had ever known was being accused. He could remember the way it felt when Sherlock interlocked his fingers with his. It was a moment of solidarity, a moment of understanding that - even though it was always present between the two men - was rarely something the detective allowed to expression, especially by means of physical contact.

The officers behind them, the yells and the commands, the threat of consequence for their actions, had meant nothing to John in that moment. Then and there, hand in hand, John felt whole.

It wasn't fair. None of it was.

From the moment that John had met Sherlock, he had been captivated. It wasn't just the elegance in the way the other man stood and moved about, confidence exuded in every aspect of his being. It wasn't even just the genius of his deductions, the amazing talent to know exactly who John was by mere sight alone, though that had certainly been bloody brilliant. It was the way that he made John feel like he was more than a broken soldier.

The second Sherlock had asked him to join the chase, John had been caught in the detective's snare, and there was no hope in the doctor's ability to ever escape.

Not that John had ever entertained the idea of escaping. He was too mesmerized by the man's thought processes, his beautiful intellect, the amusing way (though John had tried to deny it) in which he interacted with others, and his ability to do anything his mind set out to do.

Sherlock Holmes, John had determined very early on, was the greatest man to ever live, and he had been honored to be in the man's presence.

But maybe that was the problem. John had been too honored. Too enamoured. Too obsessed. He had been so caught up in the persona that Sherlock had tried so hard to create, that John hadn't been able to notice that the man was falling.

Falling long before that moment on Saint Barts.

There was a large part of John that blamed himself for the death of his best friend. It wasn't the guilt that the others were feeling, the regret that they had doubted the detective and allowed him to commit his own death because of their doubt. Unlike them, John had never doubted. He had always known that Sherlock was as brilliant as he seemed, that his cockiness (as infuriating as it could be) was well founded.

No, the problem was that John had put Sherlock on a pedestal, and by doing so had missed the signs of humanity that lay beneath the mask. The doctor may not have considered the detective a "freak" like Donovan or Anderson, or shied away from him like many other acquaintances, or did any of the other numerous insulting little habits that people had when it came to the man, but John was still at fault.

Because as Sherlock's best friend, he should have been able to see past the walls that he had built up. He should have known immediately that Sherlock was putting on a show when he acted as if he didn't care about Mrs. Hutchinson. He should have known that there was something wrong, and he should have been there to save him.

There was an even larger part of John that wondered what point he actually had in Sherlock's life. The detective had obviously saved him. Had taken one look at an ex-soldier with PTSD who was barely getting by in his daily civilian life, and had managed to breathe life back into him.

But for all that Sherlock had been able to save him, what had John ever actually done for the other man?

He obviously hadn't been the man's savior.

"One more miracle," he kept praying, whispering well past the point of realizing that he was doing so. "Just please, be alive. For me." _ **  
**_


End file.
